


InstaLove

by Experimental



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Epic Bromance, Improper Use of Kiddie Rides, Platonic Romance, Puns & Word Play, Social Media, The King and the Skater References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: People said they had an Instagram romance. Naturally, when Chris heard of it, he felt a sacred duty to fan the flame. And, not one to be shown up on social media, Phichit eagerly accepted the challenge.





	1. phichit+chu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea though the Phichit+Chris ship be small, she be mighty. Ergo there's bound to be a little incidental overlap here with other fics, and certainly some intentional plays on developing fanon, in addition to all the ideas that were bouncing around my head and just had to be exorcised into words before permanent damage was done. May the result entertain.

Great friendships, the kind that stick with you throughout your life or send it in an unexpected direction, often start with that one moment you turn to the person next to you, whom you've already met and thought you had figured out, and see them as if for the first time.

For Phichit that moment came in Barcelona, before the Grand Prix Finals. Specifically when Chris caught him up on Yuuri's drunken after-party antics over dinner. Neither one would have even been there, sitting next to each other at the same table, if not for Yuuri's invite. And true, the bulk of their conversation together revolved around their mutual friends.

But as they shared memories and photos, huddled together over Chris's phone, Phichit was struck by the first inklings that he had stumbled upon a kindred spirit. One he never knew he would have so much in common with from their more strictly-business interactions in the rink. They were already following each other on social media, out of professional courtesy and friendly curiosity, but by the time they left the restaurant, each had decided on his own to follow the other more closely.

What was supposed to be a quiet night spent resting up for tomorrow's short program turned—at least, as the rest of the world saw it—into an epic comment session between the two of them on one of Minako's posts from that evening's outing, full of cleverly veiled references to dance-offs and poles and vows that they weren't going to let Yuuri and his new gold ring steal the spotlight without a fight. Phichit woke up to find that an avalanche of replies had occurred while he slept, a good deal of which were questioning whether his and Chris's comments counted as flirting, and an even greater number of which were positive they did. As for Minako, she was inconsolable in her joy at being the vehicle through which such goodness had been brought into the world.

Naturally, when Chris caught wind of it, he felt a sacred duty to fan the flame. And being the good sport and fierce competitor that he was, and certainly not one to be shown up on social media, Phichit wasn't about to back down from the challenge either.

Victor, ever the eager co-conspirator, got the ball rolling for them at the banquet after Finals, posting a pic of Chris and Phichit demonstrating a particularly melodramatic goose lift (their tongue-in-cheek tribute to his and Yuuri's surprise exhibition skate), with a caption suggesting even their combined powers wouldn't be enough to get them to the podium next year.

They had to part ways after that, but the proverbial snowball kept a'rolling online.

Their more enthusiastic followers grabbed onto any casual comment one left on the other's post that sounded remotely like an inside joke, and theories abounded regarding the subtext of such mundane things as Chris's order at a Thai restaurant (to be fair, it did contain Brussels sprouts and therefore the “phichit+choux” pun, while tortured, was warranted).

His cat—whose full name Phichit was tickled to no end to discover was Vittoria—complained often to Phichit's hamsters about Chris's habits and frequent travels, and vice versa.

They congratulated one another on reaching quad goals, and traded _The King and the Skater_ quotes and gifs after Chris _finally_ sat through the whole film. He didn't seem nearly as enthused with it as Phichit was, and kept getting hung up on the improbability of an outdoor ice rink in nineteenth-century Siam—even though _magic—_ but it seemed to grow on him as time went on, and anyway he got points for making an effort.

Considering they had barely spoken in person more than a few times outside the rink, and hardly exchanged so much as a high-five in it, their public online interactions had a warmth and chemistry that practically stag-leaped off the screen. It wasn't difficult to find comments about it, between the marriage proposals and emoji strings of admiration. People said they had an Instagram romance.

Which Phichit might have been able to dismiss as speculative hype, just fans being fans, if not for the warm, tingly feeling he got inside whenever he saw Chris had replied to one of his posts. He didn't exactly feel the same way hearing from Yuuri, or Guanghong or Leo. Maybe Phichit was a little starstruck, to think someone so decorated and with such a magnetic presence cared about what _he_ was doing; but as he had never idolized Christophe the way Yuuri had Victor, that didn't fully explain it either. It wasn't conventional, it certainly wasn't like what Yuuri and Victor had, but maybe there was some truth to it being a kind of romance after all.

It didn't help that Chris started referring to him as “petit+chou” on social media, which Victor was kind enough to explain—discreetly, during a tandem video chat that Yuuri had momentarily popped out of—didn't refer to cream puffs, let alone little cabbages like Phichit had initially thought. “I mean,” Victor amended, “it does _,_ but when you call someone your ' _petit chou'_ you're really calling them 'sweetheart'.

“I can talk to him about it if it bothers you,” he started to say at Phichit's initial speechlessness, but Phichit cut him off: “No, it's okay! Our followers really like it and I wouldn't want him to stop on my account.”

What he didn't say was that he kind of really liked it too. He just wished he knew what he was supposed to make of it.

Phichit didn't get much sleep that night, just lay awake mentally scrolling through every post or comment he could remember leaving that might have given Chris the wrong impression about himself and his intentions. _Sweetheart, huh? And here I thought I was being clever, changing my profile pic to a kawaii cabbage._

Of course, Chris being Chris, it probably didn't mean anything. He flirted with everyone (except perhaps Jean-Jacques Leroy, but it _was_ generally understood that JJ was in a committed relationship with himself) and no one seemed to take anything he said or did as a serious advance. It was part of Chris's persona. Their fans understood that, so why should Phichit feel like he had to analyze it?

Christophe Giacometti had given him a nickname—a _cute_ nickname, in front of the whole world, and one that Phichit himself couldn't have set up any better. There was really only one way to describe how he ought to feel about that: #blessed.

But the proverbial straw that blew up the Twittersphere had to be Phichit's impromptu interpretation of Chris's “Intoxicated” program, whipped out when the song “randomly” happened to come on over the PA system during a practice at his home rink. The video went viral, in part because no one thought Phichit had _that_ remotely in him after his wholesome, family-friendly “Shall We Skate?” choreography. And Chris's retweet consisting of a peach followed by four face-blowing-a-kiss emoji unleashed a torrent of discombobulated keyboard smashes and “I came” affirmations.

The two of them _had_ to get together next time they were in the same city, Yuuri messaged him from St. Petersburg after seeing the ass-grab that was trending round the figure skating world.

And perhaps Victor told Chris the same thing, as that same evening Phichit received a text saying "You. Moi. Budapest. Let's break the internet."

Phichit couldn't wait.

So there they were in Budapest, a brisk but sunny day, the Romanesque turrets of Vajdahunyad Castle behind them as they took selfies with the chimney cakes that they bought from a kürtőskalács kiosk in City Park.

Getting ready to chow down on their kürtőskalács.

Blowing out steam when the cakes proved still too hot-off-the-coals to eat.

Taking forced-perspectives wherein the kürtőskalács were enormous and the skaters tiny but mighty.

Unwinding the chimney cake to see how long they could stretch it out without breaking it.

Showing off matching rings of kürtőskalács coils, with tags like _#kurtosbros_ and _#hungryinhungary_ and _#suckitvictuuri_. Then, in the next few shots, tearing into each other's doughy, sugar-sprinkled rings with their teeth in a naughtier homage to their friends' displays of affection in the rink. Seemed the kurtos bromance proved simply too hot—and too delicious—to live.

“I think we may have just populated a small country,” Phichit was pleased to report as he scrolled through the comments from a park bench, “judging by how many people are claiming that last pic got them pregnant.”

“Totally worth ruining my diet,” Chris grinned as he managed his own feed beside Phichit.

“I'm sure you bounce back quick enough.”

“Well, that's true. . . . But something really does happen to you when you hit twenty-five—”

“Yeah, yeah, old man,” Phichit laughed.

“I'm serious! Just you wait till you get here, Phichit, then we'll see who's laughing. And who's complaining about pains in places he's never had pains before.”

Phichit. Not some variation on _petit chou_. That was a term of endearment reserved for online or in front of the public. (Or any captive audience. Phichit couldn't but notice Chris's self-satisfied smile when just overhearing the nickname at practice sent Yuri Plisetsky into a bit of a tizzy. Phichit also couldn't but notice how close he stayed to Otabek's side after that.)

But when they weren't putting on a show for the cameras, or setting up shots they thought would get lots of likes, or sharing embarrassing stories about their mutual friends (discretion, of course, being a given), there seemed to be a cool awkwardness between him and Chris, a loss for words that small talk ended up filling, that they never had when they spoke over the Internet.

And Phichit couldn't be sure whether that was something that ought to concern him: that they only seemed to be able to be themselves to one another so long as there was a screen between them.

“I'm going to have to work extra hard this year, in any case,” Chris was saying, pulling him away from that thought, “just to keep you and Yuuri off my ass. I'm not sure whether I should be worried about you two encroaching on my territory, or flattered.”

Of course, Phichit couldn't have hoped to avoid talking about it forever. “Phichintoxicated,” as some of their fans had taken to calling it, or else “Phich-gate,” he assumed in reference to Chris's retweet. It was one thing to know Chris had been watching him caress his own backside online, along with everyone else on Earth, and quite another to acknowledge it in person. To the person that program rightly belonged to.

“I don't think you have anything to worry about from me,” Phichit said. “I just hope you didn't think I was making fun of your program.”

“Flattered it is, then,” Chris said with a lopsided grin. “After all, you had to be watching me pretty closely to memorize that much of it.”

So, Chris knew Phichit's dark secret. That he had been studying Chris's moves, his style, in detail. Like the fluid way Chris used his arms to draw the viewer's gaze to whichever part of his body he willed it, or how just the angle of his neck could convey so much emotion. It was pretty obvious, now that Phichit thought about it. You didn't learn a person's program well enough to imitate it just from casual viewings. Though imitation had never really been the point.

“Alright, so maybe your version was a bit flirtier than mine—”

“I think you might be confusing flirty with embarrassed,” Phichit said.

To which Chris lowered his voice to a murmur that practically had fingers of its own, and was trailing them down Phichit's spine: “You don't have to act modest for _me._ It was impressive, no matter what you call it. Now I understand how Victor could take off for Japan on a moment's notice. You surprised me, Phichit. You surprised a lot of people.”

“Myself most of all.”

“But it felt good, didn't it? To get that all out on the ice? That's the whole point of 'Intoxicated'. To put every guilty secret you're holding back inside out in the open, where everyone can see it—bare your soul, tell the world this is who you are and they can take it or leave it, it doesn't matter. And by the time you've reached the end, you have nothing left to weigh you down, nothing left to hide or to give, and still they're all panting for more of you, burning for more. It's a total power trip.”

“It _did_ feel pretty liberating,” Phichit admitted, smiling at the memory. “I think I started it as more of a joke—I don't mean in a mocking sort of way, but like a challenge to myself. I just wanted to see how much of it I knew. But once I started actually giving in to the movement, it was like something inside me wanted to open up. Something I didn't know was there until I started feeding it.”

Chris was nodding as he said this, as if to say Phichit had the idea precisely.

But still. “But still. Getting my sexy on in practice is one thing. I don't think I'd be comfortable doing that in front of a large, live audience.” Touching himself like that, making himself vulnerable before all those strange faces—or worse, all the familiar ones. . . .

Maybe Chris had someone in mind he was dedicating his performances to. When Phichit tried to lose himself fully in the emotions of that program, to just surrender to them, he couldn't help feeling like a pretender. Like being caught with his hand down his pants, when it seemed from watching Chris that the feeling should have been more like writing a love letter. “You never seem to worry about the way people see you. Maybe that's something that takes time to get over, or maturity or practice, but . . . I'm not sure I'll ever have _your_  kind of confidence.”

"Says he who took 'Shall We Skate?' and made it his own after everyone said it had been done to death."

But Phichit wasn't sure he was following what Chris was trying to tell him. "Shall We Skate?" had been as natural a fit for him as his own skin.

Unless that was Chris's point all along. “Let me show you something,” he said, and began searching for something on his phone.

When he had found what he was looking for, he put the phone in Phichit's hands. A video had started playing on it, of a younger Chris taking his place on the ice, shorter and softer, sans facial hair and wearing a looser-fitting costume than Phichit was used to seeing of him, one which looked to be inspired by traditional Swiss attire. “This is—”

“My senior debut short program,” Chris filled in for him, “at Europeans.” He smiled fondly. “Victor said I reminded him of a little mountain boy prancing through a meadow.”

Yeah, Phichit could see where he might have made the comparison. The Christophe in the video was fresh-faced and eager to be part of a world he had probably dreamed about for years. The pureness and intensity of his joy just to be there, performing for an international audience, expressed itself easily in the program, which may not have been high in technical difficulty but made up for it in energy. “Thunder and Lightning” was a fast, high-energy piece to begin with, full of percussive exclamation points and ambitious at any skill level. But even at his age Chris made it look easy to keep up. The entries and landings of his jumps weren't as sure, his arms didn't move with the trademark precision they had now, but the showy step work and coy yet inviting presence that Phichit admired of Chris today were clearly there, in some still unpolished form.

Even back then, with that cherubic face and that decidedly un-Christophe-Giacometti-like outfit, he was a consummate performer. His musical timing was spot-on, and he soon had the audience clapping along. Phichit couldn't seem to keep the grin off his face as he watched. And when that young Chris, caught up in the energy, leaped up and touched his toes, Phichit's breath caught in his throat. He knew how that felt. He knew exactly how that felt. That feeling like everything was coming into alignment: the music, the crowd, his body, his dream. . . .

That feeling like he ruled the ice.

Phichit couldn't help feeling in some ways like he was watching a version of himself. The Christophe on the screen seemed to have little in common with the exhibitionist who Phichit joked left the ice soaking wet. Yet he also couldn't deny that that fifteen-year-old kid whose joie de vivre was still contagious a decade later and through a tiny screen _was_ the same person as the Chris sitting next to him. They had the same heart, the same passion for the sport and for delighting and putting on a show—for showing off that passion in its purest form, whatever the theme of the moment might be.

There was just something . . . missing from that earlier performance, something Phichit couldn't quite put his finger on. And it wasn't the sex appeal.

He whistled as the program reached its climax, with a tight spin sequence that he couldn't help envying.

“If you'd told that kid,” Chris said, as if imparting a guilty secret, “that he would ever be doing a program like 'Intoxicated,' he would have just about died of embarrassment. Or laughed in your face, because he wouldn't have believed it.”

“Okay, so how exactly _did_ you go from innocent little mountain boy to,” Phichit crooned: “' _I'm begging you not to~'?_ ”

Which earned him a little laugh. “It had nothing to do with confidence, believe it or not. Or exhibitionist tendencies. Well, maybe just a little. But that part's easy. It's no different than mild-mannered Clark Kent letting the whole world see him as Superman.”

“I think Superman might rather freebase Kryptonite than shake his ass on a pole in front of the entire Justice League,” Phichit mumbled. He didn't buy Chris as “mild-mannered” anything, either, despite the granny glasses he often wore during their late-night calls.

But he thought he understood well enough what Chris meant when he said: “I'm still the same person I was then, only I met someone who challenged me to be more than I'd thought I could be. That's really all there was to it. Motivation can't only come from inside. Someone had to come along and start feeding that thing inside of me that _I_ didn't know I had.”

Phichit had a pretty good idea who that person was. Chris had started chasing Victor's success soon after that year. Though, when he was younger, Phichit had always just assumed he was chasing the medals.

That was, until he met Yuuri, and Guanghong and Leo. And, of course, Chris. Maybe Phichit had already met that person, that challenger who pushed him to want to reach new horizons. In the last few months he'd caught himself doing things on the ice that he once thought were beyond his skill level, or that he never felt courageous enough to try.

On the phone's screen, the camera had zoomed in on teenage Christophe's guileless, glowing face as he waved to the cheering crowd, and that was when it finally struck Phichit. There was someone else Chris reminded him of. Someone who had been very near and dear to him for as long as he could remember. He just hadn't put it together until now.

“I think you might be my Arthur Stuart.”

“Huh?”

Phichit's heart leapt up into his throat. _Oh my god, did I just say that out loud?_

He thrust Chris's phone back at him, turning his face the other way as though that could possibly hide how much his cheeks were burning. Jeez, Chris must think he was such a child for saying a thing like that. Why had Phichit even said it? Just because Chris had allowed him a glance into his secret self? Some truths just weren't meant to be shared!

But now that he had, he couldn't just pretend he hadn't. Especially when Chris was saying, “Did I just hear you say I'm your Arthur Stuart? As in, from the movie?”

 _Of course from the movie! What else would he be from?_ “Just forget it,” Phichit said toward his phone in his lap. “All I meant was—”

“Oh, I know what you meant,” Chris said, as though he was a little offended that Phichit still felt he had to explain. He pushed himself to his feet, and Phichit couldn't but notice how Chris avoided looking back at him. Like he couldn't bring himself to face Phichit anymore after a confession like that. “I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to say. Well. I suppose there's only one thing a man _can_ say in this situation, isn't there?”

And then Phichit did die a little inside, because when Chris spun back around, he bowed, extended his hand in the most goddamned gentlemanly manner Phichit had ever seen, and said, right into Phichit's eyes, “Shall we skate, your majesty?”

He could see the comments now: the squees, the keyboard smashes, the declarations of undying love and exploding ovaries. Minako's tears of moe and bitter envy.

Just thinking about it made Phichit smile until it hurt. But his phone remained firmly in his lap, its cameras seeing only strangers in the landscape of City Park, and for once he didn't feel like he was missing anything by not documenting this at all. No one was ever going to see this Chris but him. And that was the way it should be.

Phichit was so preoccupied appreciating Chris's Arthur impression that it completely skipped his mind that he should probably do or say something in return. But before he could, their phones chimed with a notification, and they saw that Victor had posted a new pic of him and Yuuri, the two of them also out taking in the sights.

“ _What?_ ” Chris snapped out of his bow. "Those little copycats. . . .”

“Using kürtőskalács to re-enact the famous spaghetti scene from _Lady and the Tramp_!” Phichit exclaimed. “It's . . . it's _genius_! Why didn't we think of that?”

“How do they already have more likes than us? We did the kurtos thing first!”

Now that it had become a competition, a matter of upstaging Yuuri and Victor, Chris gripped his phone with a fierce new determination. “Come on, Phichit. I seem to recall we passed a carousel a while back and I'm suddenly feeling inspired.”

“Yes!” Phichit pumped his fist, leaping to his feet. “Right behind you!”

That was, until he remembered: “Wait a minute. Carousels have poles. . . . Uh, Chris~? Chris, wait up! _Please don't do anything to get us arrested~!_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story, like "Stirring the Pot", owes part of its existence to foodie travel shows. Kürtőskalács might not be Hungarian in origin (and it seems like they're slowly taking over the world now), but they are a famous street food you just have to get in Budapest. Also seemingly made for Instagram. 
> 
> Obviously I don't know what Chris's cat's actual name is, but I like to think Yuuri wasn't the only one who named a pet after his idol.
> 
> I chose Johann Strauss, Jr.'s "Thunder and Lightning" ("Unter Donner und Blitz") Op. 324 for young Chris partly because it's so opposite stylistically from "Intoxicated," and Strauss's music, though Austrian, has that alpiney sort of feel that I think captures what Victor was talking about. There was definitely some inspiration from Stéphane Lambiel's amazing "William Tell Overture" program, too. If you've never seen it, you need to.


	2. christophe-gc

The most beautiful relationships, it seemed to him, often begin when the universe leaves you with no choice but to confront that one person you've been desperate to say something to, but never seem to find the words with which to start.

Chris supposed he had Yuuri to thank for it.

He also supposed that made the two of them even, since he deserved at least a little credit for all the sentimental stuff going on at the head of the table that night before GPF in Barcelona. In fact, he was supposed to be there to make Yuuri's dance instructor's dream come true, and Minako was a pleasant person to talk to and the adoration beaming from her direction was certainly flattering. Chis had no qualms whatsoever about playing charming dinner companion for an evening.

But when the subject of the previous year's banquet came up, and Phichit started to exhibit the telltale signs of FOMO realized, Chris saw the chance he had been waiting for to get out his phone and spring to the rescue.

He wouldn't have been able to say after that why he had ever thought Phichit aloof or unapproachable when the opposite was so true. Maybe it was because Phichit never seemed to stray far from his coach, or that he preferred to watch other skaters on a monitor rather than from rink-side. Or maybe the five years between them had been just enough to convince Chris, without even trying to ascertain whether it was true, that they couldn't have much in common.

But none of that seemed to matter that night as they went back and forth on Instagram when they should have been sleeping.

Or when Phichit threw an arm around Chris's shoulders after his exhibition skate, the height difference and Phichit's exuberance nearly pulling him off balance, and Chris's heart skipped in a way it hadn't in what felt like a long time. Fear of falling, he might have told himself at the time. Which was true enough, not just in the way he thought.

It was that moment he would later point to as the one that made up his mind. Since the morning of his free skate Chris had been wondering if it really was time to throw in the towel, and his distracted performance hadn't helped to settle the question. What with no Victor to drive him, and missing the podium for the first time in years, maybe it was best to bow out of competition before staying in just got embarrassing. Perhaps he should take a year to pursue some of the offers to model that he'd received, think about the direction he wanted his future to go in. He could always teach. Beat Victor at the coaching game—now there was a worthy goal.

Until a half-hug so filled with the camaraderie Chris had come to depend on these last ten years that he couldn't bring himself to walk away from it all. Not yet. Not when it suddenly felt so fresh and strong.

Chris had made up his mind by the time of the banquet. And when Victor put in no uncertain terms that he was planning to return to competitive skate next year, the fire beneath Chris wasn't just relit, it was doused in gasoline.

But it was Phichit he hurried over to grab to celebrate, Victor a step behind with his phone at the ready. “You. Moi. Pic. Right now,” Chris said while removing Phichit's flute of champs to a safe distance. “What lifts are you comfortable with?”

The resulting goose lift proved an apt way to send them off on their respective ways. Phichit's followers were quick to draw comparisons between him and Arthur in _The King and the Skater_ , and a particular number in the film where the hero sings about his trip back in time from the prow of a ship, arms spread wide to catch the wind.

Chris supposed that made him the boat. _Already downgraded to an inanimate object._ Whatever. He wasn't familiar with the song, but that didn't change what the photo meant to him. How it reminded him every time he looked at it that, going into Europeans, those he most wanted to watch him _would_ be watching, even if from half a world away.

And Chris was watching them as well. He live-tweeted Phichit's programs at Four Continents, keeping a close eye on the screen for that moment in the kiss and cry when Phichit would be reunited with his phone, and would start catching up on the conversation online. The challenge was to leave something provocative enough to get a laugh out of Phichit on live TV. Sometimes Chris would even swear he saw Phichit mouth his name as he waved to the cameras and supporters back home, though he could never make it out clearly enough from the audio to be sure.

To be fair, Chris live-tweeted for Yuuri, too, and JJ and anyone else about whose performance he had something to say; but by that time, Phichit was usually right there alongside him, commenting from an on-the-ground perspective. Tweeting about jumps landed or popped before the slight time delay allowed Chris to see them himself. Thanks to Phichit, Chris could almost feel as though he were a spectator there himself—though a quiet cafe was a far cry from the roar from the stands and the cut of the ice that one just had to _feel_ in his bones to get the full effect.

When Chris was competing, he was too busy soaking in the energy of the venue and talking to peers and the press to have time for social media. But that didn't mean it wasn't on his mind. He always had been partial to the thrill of delayed gratification, waiting until there was nothing left to see and no one to perform for before checking his notifications. Which drove Phichit nuts. As compromise, Chris would work an inside joke into an English-language interview, knowing Phichit was going to see it and get the message coded just for him. Knowing Chris was going to get confirmation of it that night or the next morning, when Phichit called or they had the time to converse in text.

It was those calls and texting sessions that sustained Chris over the couple of months following the Grand Prix Finals. Though the posts and comments on Twitter and Instagram that titillated the public were their own kind of fuel, they were still a performance, still sexy Christophe being sexy Christophe. Still Chris playing the version of himself that everyone wanted to see.

Alone with Phichit, though—if “alone” was the right word while they were nine thousand kilometers apart—he didn't have to act, didn't have to prove anything. And, since he was just realizing how out-of-practice he was at it, that was the real challenge.

Especially when it came to one thing. Chris didn't want to admit it, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that he had never sat through _The King and the Skater_ in its entirety. And, great admiration he had for Phichit's programs aside, he really didn't care to.

But when he missed one of Phichit's quotes, one that in hindsight should have been obvious (“Are you serious right now? It's from the movie!” - “What movie?” - “' _What movie'?!_ ”), he had to come clean.

Phichit, naturally, was beside himself with disbelief. “How could you never have seen it? You're a figure skater, it's a movie about figure skating!”

“I haven't seen _every_ movie about figure skating,” Chris had laughed, “Mr What's-an-iron-lotus. Besides, collectible card games aren't really my thing—”

“But if you actually _see_ it you'll understand it's a totally necessary plot device! Oh my god. Okay. I am not going to discuss _TKatS,_ ” which of course Phichit pronounced “teh-cats”, “with you at one in the morning. Just stop reading Rotten Tomatoes or Reddit or whatever you're on and get a copy so you can form your own opinion.”

It took a little tracking down, but Chris went and did just that. Phichit was so adamant it was going to change his life he really couldn't justify continuing to put it off. Nor did he want Phichit to be disappointed in him.

But nor was Chris expecting a musical fantasy already more than a decade and a half old to hit so close to home. “ _Figure skater Arthur Stuart from Manchester, England,_ ” the first line of the synopsis read, “ _has lost his motivation to skate and decides to retire_. . . .”

Now, that wasn't fair. Why couldn't he have caught this film on a plane or in a bar years ago when the question of retirement couldn't have been farther from his mind? Couldn't Josef have assigned it as homework or something when Chris was younger so he had had an excuse? Well. He was watching it now, if only so he had something to talk to Phichit about.

So Chris told himself the second time through. And the third.

And the tenth (well, that and he couldn't get one of the songs out of his head for days and thought learning all of the lyrics might finally exorcise it). It wasn't a bad movie, some parts of it were even quite brilliant, it just wasn't his cup of tea. And a bit disorganized, being unable to fully commit to any of its disparate thematic elements.

Not to mention full of plot holes. They had their first fight over whether the pond the king's children skate on in the film would have stayed frozen in Thailand's climate. At least, Chris felt afterwards like it had been a fight. In the moment, it seemed like a silly thing to disagree about. But Phichit was very passionate about his arguments (to be fair to him, it probably seemed a bit like Chris was attacking his childhood). When he ended their video call a short while later, it wasn't with the usual wave and bright, catlike smile, either. But as Phichit never brought it up again, perhaps he hadn't taken it as personally as Chris had feared.

But just in case, like a cat with a mouse, Chris waited for the next opportunity to leave an appropriate quote or a gif on Phichit's digital doorstep, hoping it would be taken for the apology it was meant to be without having to say the words themselves. Hoping Phichit would hear from it, _I get it. I really do. I don't love it, but I love what it means to you._

Love. That was a loaded word. One Chris usually tried to stay away from. He _enjoyed_ a lot of things, and people, but that didn't mean that he _loved_ them.

Which had landed him in some trouble in the past. Chris knew there were certain people in this sport, skaters and non-, who refused to ever speak to him again over things he had said or done. Or, as often as not, things he had _not_ said or done. To murder a cliché, he didn't make a habit of burning bridges, but that didn't mean he'd never accidentally set one on fire.

Victor, as usual, saw what he was doing and had one hand poised to pull the alarm. “Christophe Giacometti, just what are you playing at this time?”

“ _Pardon_?”

“Don't act cute, you know exactly what I'm talking about. As Phichit's friend, I feel I have a duty to ask you what your intentions are with him. I saw the nickname you gave him on Insta,” Victor added when Chris opened his mouth to protest. “Does he know what it means?”

“It doesn't mean anything,” Chris said as he pulled his cat off his keyboard and into his lap. Stroking her till she settled gave him an excuse not to meet the disapproval in Victor's gaze, at very least. Victor knew him too well. But he was wrong this time. “He changed his profile pic to a cute cabbage for god's sake, I think he knows we're just having fun.”

“You'd better be right about that. If you set him up to expect something you never intend to give and break his heart—”

“What? You'll murder me?”

Victor's sigh chastened him for not taking this seriously. But Chris was. “Just don't,” Victor said. “Enough brilliant careers have died before their time over shit like this.”

 _I know._ Chris might have shared responsibility for one or two of them. He and Victor both. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Phichit. But Chris couldn't very well tell Victor that, when it could so very easily be misinterpreted.

But for all the heavy flirting on social media, the cheesy pick-up lines they butchered mercilessly over each other's selfies, Chris couldn't remember ever giving Phichit the impression when they chatted privately that he was interested in anything more than friendship. Nor did it seem like Phichit wanted anything more from Chris.

Then again, maybe Chris was the one who was wrong.

He couldn't remember how he first came to know about it. Maybe it was an animated gif of Phichit running his hands over his own butt that popped up on his Twitter feed, or a comment from Mila or Sara he didn't yet know the context of. Either way, within minutes Chris had tracked down the original post, then proceeded to watch the whole thing at least five times through without a break with one hand pressed against his mouth, desperately trying not to laugh.

Not because it was funny. Just the opposite. It was so brilliant and sexy and a beautiful surprise, his elation didn't want to stay bottled up inside. It wanted to burst out of him like a champagne cork, and Chris really didn't think a busy airport terminal was the most appropriate place to let it loose. In any case, his flight was just about to board and Josef kept on him to put his phone away and get his things together, so Chris did the only thing he could think of in the moment: retweeted the video with a peach emoji and four blown kisses. Then he slept all the way back to Geneva.

When next he had the chance to check his phone, Chris had to admit that even he was taken aback by the sheer number of notifications and texts he'd received for that one little tweet. (Well, doubtless Phichit deserved just as much credit, if not more. It _was_ his ass swaying to “Intoxicated” this time.)

Including several texts from Victor. “TALK TO HIM. YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS”

“I BLAME YOU”

“IM SERIOUS CHRIS THIS IS SERIOUS”

“YOU IGNORING ME???”

“CHRIIIIIIIIIS”

“Yuuri just told me you had a flight. Sorry. But srsly CALL ME WHEN YOU LAND”

He could see Victor now, whining to Yuuri about how Chris had corrupted their sweet little Phichit—as if he were so sweet and innocent to begin with. Or as if Phichit or Chris or any of their fans saw “Phichintoxicated” (as it had already started being called) as a debacle in need of fixing.

It was exactly the sort of thing Chris might have done, the sort of thing that was guaranteed to have everyone talking about _him._ But rather than envy Phichit for it (though if Chris were completely honest, he did envy the attention Phichit was getting, too), Chris was thrilled for him. Could hardly be more so. Dare he even say proud, and moved in a way he didn't feel he deserved? Was this how Victor had felt, watching Yuuri skate his “Stammi Vicino” program?

He was right. Chris had to say something to Phichit directly. He had to acknowledge this. Or else it would be like spurning a confession.

Because while the whole world was gushing over how well Phichit had mimicked Chris's moves, it was those little things he took in an entirely different direction, a direction that was uniquely Phichit Chulanont, that Chris wanted to watch over and over again. Those things Chris wanted to steal because he admired and envied Phichit for coaxing them out of his own program. Those things that made Chris want to do his own take on “Shall We Skate?” just so Phichit would know precisely what he was feeling.

He must have deleted his text and started over a hundred times. Which wasn't like him at all. In the end, all he could think of to send was “You. Moi. Budapest. Let's break the internet.”

What he felt like saying was, _I think you just brought me back to life._

* * *

Mila and Sara were waiting for him rink-side when he stepped off the ice at morning practice. Big, silly, pervy grins on their faces that could only mean one thing: “We saw your posts.”

“Oh?” Christophe said as he moved toward his belongings, in that I-don't-know-what-you-could-possibly-be-talking-about tone that indicated he knew exactly what they were talking about.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Sara, though her grin said what she really wanted to do was thank him. “We've come to expect this sort of behavior of you, but making our little Chulanut party to your acts of public indecency?”

“In my defense,” Chris pouted, “I couldn't take _all_ of those pictures myself.”

“What I wanna know,” said Mila, “is how you convinced the carousel operator to let you get away with it. They're usually such fascists about the rules.”

“We may have persuaded her it would be worth her while to look the other way just this once.”

“I bet. More like you wouldn't have been able to pry her eyes off of you with the jaws of life.”

Chris threw a wink at the two young women. “Isn't that what I said? There's more I haven't posted.” So saying, he unlocked his phone and opened his photo album with a few deft flicks of the thumb. “If you want to see.”

Of course they did. Mila couldn't get his phone into her hands quick enough. And, with Sara draped over her shoulder looking on, the two laughed in equal parts _with_ and _at_ the Chris and Phichit on the screen.

At the two of them, bent over the safety belt "reins" or slapping their horses' hindquarters, as if they could possibly outrace one another on stationary mounts.

Reaching out to one another with fingers just centimeters apart, lovelorn looks in their locked eyes.

Lacing fingers in the space between their horses, grinning breathlessly (actually they were singing along with the pipe-organ version of an old pop song that was playing at the time, but that Chris would never tell).

Chris on the back of Phichit's horse, arms looped around Phichit's shoulders from behind as they made their usual selfie faces for their followers. (Sara: “No fair, the operators never let _us_ ride tandem!”)

Chris on the back of Phichit's horse, the lower half of his face buried in Phichit's shoulder, sending the camera a dangerous glare that declared " _All mine_." Phichit still beaming but his cheeks having turned the color of borscht. (Mila: “Awww, Chulametti is real~”)

Phichit trying to hold the selfie stick steady with Chris's legs wrapped around him from behind and his fingers aggressively mussing up Phichit's hair, laughing at Chris's breath tickling his ear. (“That escalated quickly.” - “About what's to be expected, though.”)

Phichit apologizing over his shoulder to the ride operator, who was politely telling Chris off for setting a bad example for the kiddies with his reckless riding. (She was remarkably OK with the groping, just didn't buy Chris's argument that his legs counted as a safety restraint.)

Then more solo shots: Phichit leading the charge, rattling his invisible sabre. Phichit up on one knee in the saddle, channeling Arthur Stuart with the pole against his collarbone and his arms spread wide and the wind in his hair.

Phichit reassuring his horse that he would never take advantage of his equine friend the way Chris was his.

Chris gripping the pole in one hand, Ina Bauering as best as he could while seated on a wooden horse with his jacket billowing out behind him.

Then leaning back even further, pole between his knees and hips thrust in the air, jacket now down around his elbows and T-shirt riding up to show some bellybutton, head thrown back over his mount's rear as he propositioned the camera with his eyes.

There were several of these, actually, each more suggestive than the last. Chris could pinpoint the moment the girls reached that set of photos by the squeals. A few meters away, Yuri looked over from his conversation with Otabek to see what the commotion was about, cringing exactly like a startled cat.

“Keep ridin' that stallion, Chris!” Sara cackled.

“All those poor parents who had to explain this!” Mila gasped.

“Just wait. It gets even better.”

And it did. Mila and Sara had to hold on to each other for support, they were laughing so hard, wiping real tears out of their eyes. Chris wasn't offended in the least. He had set up that shot knowing just how bad it was, never intending to post it, seeing as it catered to a particularly niche audience. Judging by the girls' reaction, however, he might just have to change his mind. For the lol's.

“Is that the one of Chris kissing his horse's ass?” Phichit grinned as he skated up to the gate, needing only to see the effect the photo had to guess correctly.

Laughing so much she couldn't catch her breath, Mila could only nod.

“It was a tasteful kiss,” Chris insisted, feigning hurt. “Victor was good to me, I was merely expressing my gratitude. You make it sound so dirty. . . .”

“VICTOR?!” the girls wailed. “Please tell me that's what he named the horse!”

“It was a dappled gray. Hey, Sara, would you mind?” Phichit pointed to his blade guards, resting on top of the boards.

She _was_ the closest one to them. But Chris spotted the chance, and reached across before Sara could compose herself.

“Allow me,” he purred as he handed the guards over, “your majesty.”

The second the words were out, and a blush spread across Phichit's cheeks, Chris regretted saying them. Not the words themselves, of course. Just somehow they didn't feel as right before an audience. _Merde,_ he might have overstepped on this one.

Though Yuri's cursing in Russian (Chris had learned enough by now to make out the words “shameless” and “barf”) and Mila and Sara's sudden sobriety were certainly rewarding in their own way.

The meaningful smile Phichit shot Chris before he went to check in with Cialdini didn't get past the girls either. “Eh? 'Your majesty'?” said Mila. “When did this start?” said Sara.

“It's just something I'm working on for next season.” But just so they wouldn't take him too seriously, Chris added for good measure: “Nothing like a little role-play to get the creative juices flowing, _non_?”

If he was to be Phichit's Arthur, then it was only fair Phichit be his motivation. Chris would just have to make sure he was sparing with the “your majesty”s from now on. They had a kind of magic that he really didn't want to wear out.

But even though it was half a year away and he still had Worlds to get through, Chris couldn't wait for next season to start. The future, to borrow a line from _TKatS,_ was going to be amazing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was originally a one-off, but I couldn't leave this story without getting Chris's side of things. Not after Phichit called Chris his Arthur! What with all that must be going through his head after season one, the "lost motivation" theme of the movie seemed too good a parallel not to address.
> 
> The quoted synopsis of _TKatS_ is lifted straight from Kubo-sensei's [translated] lengthier synopsis. The "borrowed" line mentioned at the end is actually my own malapropism, but you can't tell me it's not in the movie at SOME point. ;)


End file.
